


Five Minutes

by Rarepair



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, S4 the final problem, Smut lite, jimcroft - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 08:00:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10940313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rarepair/pseuds/Rarepair
Summary: Mycroft tries to determine any effect Eurus might have had on Jim but Jim could care less about the Holmes sister at this particular moment. His sights are set on Mycroft.





	Five Minutes

Mycroft's eyes narrowed on Jim as he strolled into his office at Sherrinford; the immaculately dressed consulting criminal wasn't sporting his requisite smirk. Instead, his blank gaze flicked to Mycroft sitting in his chair before he sauntered towards the window behind his desk. Mycroft stretched his neck as Jim came to a stop a few inches away and peered out over the sea like he was Poisedon himself. Whatever Eurus had done, she hadn't affected his insolence. It seemed that James was still blithely disrespectful of the older man's authority in any capacity. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and caused his breaths to shallow. For a few moments, Jim stood there silently gazing out across the water in contemplation. It was rather unnerving.

"So," Mycroft began icily to conceal his apprehension, "what did you two discuss?"

Jim's head started bobbing before it swayed towards him. Finally, a smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

"Oh, you know," he chuckled, "the weather, current events . . . the recent Eurovision broadcast. She's awfully bored."

Mycroft snorted and the sighed. "I take that to mean you have no intention of telling me what you discussed."

Jim whirled from the window and plunked himself on Mycroft's desk. "Would you believe me if I told you?"

His knee nudged past and swayed between Mycroft's thighs. Mycroft's breath caught in his throat for a moment. The cheeky bastard was always doing that, always pushing his boundaries, always _challenging_  him. Mycroft's nose wrinkled and he sat upright in his chair. He wasn't going to be befuddled by the handsome fop in his own facility. 

"Get off my desk," he hissed.

Jim's brows twitched and he leaned over him. "Or what?"

Mycroft rose to his full height and stared down his nose. Jim's eyes sparked and he sat back on his hands. A smile ghosted his lips.

"I am warning you, I will physically remove you," Mycroft huffed.

"Would you do that?" Jim grinned. "Would you get physical with me?"

The older man growled and grabbed the lapels of his tormentor's suit. He jerked him forward to his feet. Too late he realized it was a very stupid thing to do. Jim's face was inches from his own. The faint scent of lemons and cedar and just a trace of floral sweetness tickled his senses. Rather than intimidate him, Jim's face softened and his eyes slid over Mycroft's face with a kind of subtle leer in his regard. He stood there passively, his hands dangling at his sides.

"Stop it," Mycroft muttered.

"Stop what?" Jim asked softly.

"S-Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" His intensely dark brown eyes slanted lazily.

Mycroft heaved in a breath. "Like . . . like, you are-"

"How am I?"

"Are you just going to repeat everything I say in the form of a question?"

Jim's eyes crinkled at the corners. "You know how to shut me up."

For a few seconds, Mycroft just stared down at temptation in the form of a slight but wiry paramour. With a frustrated sigh, he dropped his head and suddenly, he was kissing Jim. _James._ James Moriarty. How many nights had this man kept him awake? Too many. Mycroft groaned when Jim's lips began to move under his and a hand slipped around the back of his neck. Deep in the recesses of his mind he knew what he was doing was incredibly ill-advised but his greedy inner demon worked hard to stifle his voice of reason. When Jim's tongue touched his, his whole body shook and he jerked his head back.

"Hmmph, hmmph, this is not-"

Jim cut him off by launching himself upwards and recapturing his lips. The fresh assault on his senses made Mycroft's head spin. His body tensed as if for battle. Well, it was a battle of sorts as a tongue probed into his mouth, a battle to retain control of himself. Jim's verve reminded him of his heady younger days in college and his first experiences with a classmate of his who'd had the same kind of frenetic energy about him.

"What do you want?" Jim breathed against his lips. "Don't think about it, just feel it. What do you want?"

His fingers fiddled with the buttons of Mycroft's waistcoat. Mycroft sucked in a breath. He was at a loss for words. Jim kissed him again and suddenly hands had found their way between the halves of his shirt. Scorching hot fingers ripped apart the fabric. Mycroft leaned into him and shook as he felt palms and pads explore his chest and around to his back. He tried to hold on but his arms felt weak. 

"Mmm, I know what you want. I know . . ."

Jim roughly jerked Mycroft around by his belt and bumped him back up against the desk. Lightning fast hands worked loose his trousers and then were down his pants. 

"Ha-ah!" Mycroft cried, his head felt back.

Jim had freed his arousal and closed a hand around it. Fingers stroked him insistently. He felt his sack tighten and a jolt deep into his body. It was enough to snap him back to reality. He grabbed Jim's wrists.

"No! Jesus Ch-Christ, stop."

Jim stilled. Mycroft inhaled several breaths and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Jim had released him and stared down with his chin lifted. There was a hard look in his eyes but also  . . . confusion? Hurt? It was so fleeting that Mycroft wasn't sure what he saw. 

"James," Mycroft panted, "oh, lord! Your face . . . of course we cannot do _this_ here. I cannot be compromised. N-Not here."

For a few seconds, Jim's face remained stoic but then he smiled as if he realized something. He drifted forward and wagged his brows, his eyes dropped to Mycroft's lips before he glanced back up.

"Where? When?"

Mycroft ran a hand over his hair and hastily refastened his shirt. Where? When? No place! Never! However, this was not what he actually said.

"London," he wheezed, "give me two days. I'll arrange . . . something."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
